Doing The Rounds
by Mild Squidge
Summary: The unlucky and morally dubious tale of how Wheatley came to be in charge of the lives of many people.
1. Out Of The Way

Aperture Science was filled to the brim with jobs and opportunities that most people would consider either suicidal or, to quote the leaving essay of a previous employee, "pants-on-head retarded". Many of these jobs were dangerous beyond all belief, such as being the poor bastard that had to clean out the Aperture Science Osteo-Seperation Machine. However, it could be argued that the poor unfortunate souls assigned these jobs at least had some solace. It would never be boring.

There was one job, one specific task that everyone dreaded: Patrolling the chambers of comatose test subjects . The scientists refused to do it, they were busy with extremely important research. The interns refused to do it, they were busy playing table hockey with the scientists. Even the machines, the automatons barely capable of comprehending what boredom was, didn't want to do it, as it made them feel 'unimportant'. The route was simple, the task was dull and it was so easy even a moron could perform it exceptionally well.

It was perfect.


	2. Important

Wheatley had always considered himself to be quite important, and he was glad that the engineers in charge of his placement finally thought so too.

He was to be put in charge of one sector - _a whole bloody sector!- _and was to studiously report any sudden changes in the environment or behavior of the test subjects. If one of them was to suddenly... He furrowed his metal plate, searching for the word. It was just on the tip of his-_die_!That was the phrase he was looking for, if one of the subjects were to suddenly die, he was to...

Wheatley had drifted off at this point. The engineer conducting his tutorial didn't notice, or, more likely, didn't care. He didn't want to do this than for longer than was absolutely necessary, lest he be driven into an incoherent babbling rage by the spheres earnest attempt at conversation. He wouldn't have been the first, the ball had a way of putting his metaphorical foot in his metaphorical mouth.

Wheatley thought of all the responsibility being placed on his non-existent shoulders. _A bloody sector! _He was in charge. Only having to take orders from the engineers. Being on the opposite side of the building from H_er_. It was perfect. It was amazing. It was fan-bloody-tastic.


	3. Squeak Squeak

It was the most dull thing the sphere had ever has the displeasure of doing. All pride that came with being in charge evaporated, leaving behind an empty space. A grey, drab void that could only be lessened by the company of others. Wheatley squeaked along his management rail (he reminded himself to request a repair on the motors that pulled him along), doing his duties, checking room to room to room, making sure that everyone was breathing. He was never very good at that. For a large eye, he was never the most observant of cores.

Wheatley juddered into the last room of the sector, noting that his motors might not be enough to pull him back to the repair bay, and that he didn't have any way to contact any of the engineers that could repair him. It didn't strike him as odd. It meant that he could be trusted. He was the only one that couldn't signal for help, meaning that the engineers implicitly trusted his decisions to work out for the best.

'Yes', he thought, a little doubt worming its way into his thought process, 'that must be it'.


	4. Uh Oh

With a screech of metal Wheatley came to halting stop in the middle of the hallway. He was less than half a mile away from the nearest repair station. No problem.

Wheatley rolled back and the put all of his momentum into thrusting his motor forward, hoping to dig deep and fight his way to the station through sheer iron will.

He had successfully moved an inch.

Whoop-de-bloody-do.

Over the course of half an hour, he continued this pattern. Pull back, swing forward, lock the rails, pull back, swing forward, lock the rails, pull back, swing forward, unlatch himself, tumble off merrily down the hall with no way of controlling which way he rolled-oh no.

"_Balls."_


	5. Something- Something- Something--

Wheatley decided it was an auspicious time to start a jazz band.

He was also lying optic down in the corner of the corridor, unable to move save for his eye.

And so he did what he would normally do when he was worried or alone, and voice his thoughts. Though this was second nature by this point, it was voluntary. What he was saying at that very moment was not.

"God, I bloody love the colour blue- Epimetheus was the one who accepted the gift of Pandora from the gods- There are currently over seven billion living humans- the rescuers acknowledge with three signals per min-min-min-minute-"

Shapes, sounds, colours shrieked in Wheatleys thought process, spewing forward thoughts, memories, references he had never needed. It all accumulated, merged into a cacophony within himself. It was with true horror that he had realized penetrating between the flashes and blares of sound. A trickle of comprehension dripping through.

He needed to grab onto that string of understanding and follow it, he had to realize something- something- something- something-

_His memory_. The fall had dislodged- SOMETHING- SOMETHING- SOMETHING- SOMETHING- one of his processors, or damaged his memory, or just done- SOMETHING- SOMETHING- SOMETHING- SOMETHING-

He had to signal for help, attract attention. With all the strength he could summon, he tried, desperately, desperately tried to focus his words.

"**SOS** is the commonly used description for the internation- **Mayday** is an emergency- PLEASE- A **distress **signal is an internationally recognized means for obtain- **SOMEONE**- derives from the French 'venez _m'aider_', meaning_- _**HELP ME-**"

And with that, everything faded.


End file.
